


One Word, Four Letters, A Lifetime's Worth of Pain: IKEA

by Caitybug



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, But also, Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Older SnowBaz, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Simon worrying about being a parent, adventures in ikea furniture, building furniture, married snowbaz, self doubt, talk of having children, yelling @ each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26949910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caitybug/pseuds/Caitybug
Summary: Baz comes home and notices the house is suspiciously quiet.When he finds Simon, surrounded by unfinished pieces of furniture, he can't help but as... why/
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 21
Kudos: 104





	One Word, Four Letters, A Lifetime's Worth of Pain: IKEA

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lafeli85](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafeli85/gifts).



> Birthday gift for [Liz](http://tumblr.com/blog/foolofabookwyrm)
> 
> Thanks so much to [Birdy](http://tumblr.com/blog/snowverylost), [Nunzie](http://tumblr.com/blog/bazzybelle), [Pal](http://tumblr.com/blog/palimpsessed), and [Gabe](http://tumblr.com/blog/peachpit-gabe) for looking this over! Y'all are amazing.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!!

I walk into our flat and immediately sense something wrong. 

It’s early in the evening. Simon is usually cooking dinner while music plays loudly from the kitchen. Sometimes there is a match playing on the television, but overall, it’s usually fairly noisy. 

There is a lack of smell coming from the kitchen. 

I frown. 

(Not that I expect him to cook dinner. It’s just our routine.)

On nights he doesn’t cook, he’s usually on the sofa, waiting for me to bring takeaway, or to suggest we order in for the night. 

But the sofa and the kitchen tonight are _both_ Simon free. 

“Love?” I shout. I take my shoes off and put them on the stand next to the door. His shoes are resting neatly in their spot as well. 

I frown. 

Simon's shoes are never put away neatly. I always have to fix them when I arrive home. That’s the routine. I walk into the house to loud music and the smell of food cooking and argue with him about his shoes before we discuss our day and kiss. 

If his shoes are still put away as I did last night, it means he didn’t leave this morning. He’s been home _all day_. 

I saw him this morning. He ate breakfast, got dressed, _everything_. It seemed normal.

_What went wrong?_

“Simon?” I shout again, walking down the hall. 

My heart is beating fast. My brain is moving a million miles a minute. 

It’s been so long, but what if he’s been kidnapped? What if he got hurt? 

_What if he’s dropped again?_

That still happens sometimes. He has good days, great days, bad days, and _worse_ days. 

It’s better than it used to be, but it happens sometimes. 

It’s hard to escape everything he was put through. It still crawls back up, trying its best to envelop him in its sea of memories, of insecurities and self-doubt of depression and trauma. 

I hear a thump from the guest room. 

(I guess I shouldn’t call it that anymore.)

I walk to the room, a faint light pouring from under the doorway. 

We made a decision last night. 

We’re going to try to adopt. 

We think we are ready for it. We both would like a chance at our own family. At our own lives. 

Simon’s going to be a great dad, I already know it. 

I open the door and see something I _didn’t_ expect.

Simon, on the floor, surrounded by various pieces of wood, tools, and various screws and other connectors. 

“What’s going on here?” I ask, kneeling beside him. I have to sweep a few wooden knobby pieces aside to get comfortable. 

He’s got his clothes on from this morning. I see one trainer by the door, the other clear across the room, upside down, and still tied. 

T _hat’s more like it._

“I got a crib,” he mutters, frowning at a sheet of paper. Upon further inspection, I see the paper holds instructions. “For when we adopt.”

I raise an eyebrow, but look closer at the set of instructions and then back to what he has accomplished.

“What else has been going on today?” I ask.

He’s not gotten much done, so he must have bought it fairly recently.  
He looks up at me. His eyes look red and stressed. His hair is pulled in a million different directions. 

“What d’you mean?” He asks. “This.” He gestures to the pieces around me. “I’ve been doing this.” He sighs. “And it’s bloody impossible.”

I settle myself on the ground and softly take the instructions from his hands. 

“Simon,” I whisper, brushing some of his hair back with my hand. “What’s going on? We didn’t need to buy a crib yet. We only just decided.” 

He closes his eyes and sighs. 

“I just want to be ready,” he whispers. “For when it happens.” He moves closer and puts his head on my shoulder and I wrap my arms around him, kissing the top of his head. 

“I think we have time, love,” I say back softly. 

I’m not sure why we are whispering. Perhaps it’s out of reverence. Maybe it’s because we are both nervous about being parents. 

I spent the day researching how to be a strong adoptive parent. How to make sure that a baby who is given up still gets all of its emotional needs met. 

I kept thinking about how we could raise a child who might be Normal, even though the two of us are far from it. 

Simon pulls back and looks up at me. His eyes are watery, and I can see how they’ve become puffy throughout the day. He opens his mouth to say something but no words come out. 

“Love, what’s wrong?” I ask. 

This is more than about furniture, it _has_ to be.

“I want to make sure this kid gets everything they need,” he whispers. He’s not meeting my eyes. His eyes are focused on a spot on the wall behind me. “I want to be a good father,” he adds even quieter.

I take a deep breath in and let it out.

I knew this would worry us both. It’s not like either of us had an outstanding father figure to look up to, to set an example of what a parent _should_ be. 

And both our mothers died too young. 

But I’d like to think _at least_ we both know what a parent shouldn’t be at this point. 

And Simon has the largest heart I’ve seen in another person. I can’t help but picture it. (I have been all day.) Simon in the kitchen with our child. He’s helping them bake (probably scones, but maybe something simpler like biscuits or cake.) They’ve got a stool pulled up, but are still on their tiptoes to try and see the counter, latching on to his every word. His hair is covered in flour, but he’s got a smile bright on his face. 

At one point he picks our child up and places them on the counter to give their ankles a break from stretching.

And despite how annoyed I’ll be by the sink filled with dishes, and a husband with flour on his face, I’ll still give him a kiss and help clean up the kitchen. 

We will laugh, fight, make memories, but most importantly, we will be a _family_. 

“Simon.” I place a finger under his chin, moving it slightly to encourage him to meet my eyes. _I want him to believe this_. “You must know you won’t be like him. You’d never be like the Mage.”

I can’t ever call the Mage his father. He never was-- not truly. The Mage abandoned him when he was a baby, despite being perfectly capable of raising him. He didn’t come back until he was old enough for school, and then didn’t even tell him he was his father. 

I feel a fire in my chest at the thought of what he put Simon through. What he did to him, to a school filled with children. How he treated Simon like a soldier, instead of a son. 

“How do you know?” He asks. It’s genuine, filled with pain and laced with worry. I start to wonder if he even slept after our conversation last night, or if it just hit him this morning as he got ready for work. “How do you know I won’t be like him? Maybe it’s in my blood to be a bad father.”

“You’re nothing like him. You never will be. Even when you were following in his footsteps in school you still had a bigger heart than he did. You always thought of others, and protected people even when you didn’t need to. I know you’ll do the same with our child. You’ll give them everything you’ve got, and they’re going to love you so much.”

He closes his eyes and lets out a soft, albeit wet, chuckle. 

“I feel like an idiot,” he says, wiping tears from his face. 

“Well, you are.”

He hits my chest lightly. 

“Shove off,” he says, a smile growing on his face. “You’re not supposed to agree with me.”

I raise both hands up in defence.

“I never was a liar, Snow.” 

He laughs again, standing up and stretching. I watch the stretch of skin on his abdomen as his shirt rides up. 

Even as we’ve aged, and bodies have changed slightly, I can’t help but-

“Stop staring, you perv,” he says, tapping my knee with his foot. “This is our kid’s future bedroom. No sex in here.” 

I raise an eyebrow.

“Is that a challenge?”

He rolls his eyes and helps me up, leaning into a kiss. 

“We’ve a perfectly nice bed next door,” he says, “I’m sure we could use _that_ instead.”

I pull him closer. 

“Promise?” I whisper in his ear. 

I hear a sharp inhale of breath as I trail soft kisses down his neck. 

He lets me continue for longer than I think he means to. I put my hands under his shirt, trying to lift it, thinking I’ve won, when he stops me. 

I pull back, seeing a slight bruise on his neck where it meets his shoulder. His eyes are half-lidded and his breathing is heavy. I take note of the way his chest moves deeply as he tries to catch his breath. 

“Problem, Snow?” I ask. 

I know the answer. I know how to get him. It’s part of the perks of being together for so long. I’ve figured out what makes him tick. (Though he’s also been able to figure out the same for me. He knows how weak I am, even when I try not to show it.)

“Crib, first,” he says, trying to shake off his clear arousal. I smirk and look down at his trousers and right back up. “Then,” he says a little louder, trying to keep me on track. “Then we can handle that part.”

I sigh, thinking for a moment if I want to fight the issue. But he leans forward and kisses me softly, rubbing his thumb on my shoulder.

“Promise,” he whispers against my lips. “We can do whatever you’re thinking of when we get this crib finished.”

I roll my eyes, conceding for the time being.

_How hard could it be?_

___________________________________

_Four hours later._

“Simon! I said I needed a screw, not whatever this is,” I say, drill in hand. 

My hair is pulled back, shirt sleeves rolled up. 

We’ve been at this for _hours_ and I’ve had it. It shouldn’t be this hard to build. It’s just a few bars, a bed, and boom- it should be done. 

It seems, however, that IKEA decided that I am in hell and they are going to make sure I atone for all of my sins. The devil lives and it’s in the long winding halls of that god forsaken store and in the stupid instructions it gives.

“You don’t need a screw, Baz!” He shouts back. “You need the knobby thing to go in the slot to connect these two pieces.”

He grabs the instructions out of my hands and points. I squint.

“Simon, that looks like a screw to me.”

“It’s not, trust me.”

I rub my hands over my face. I gave up on remaining calm 3 hours ago. 

We were supposed to be having sex by now. Maybe even had food.

Instead, our takeaway sits on the kitchen table getting cold. 

Simon shoves the piece into the slot and tries to stick it to another part. It goes in, but doesn’t reach the bottom. He solves it like he does most things.

He just pushes harder.

It doesn’t budge.

“Simon-”

“I’ve got it,” he insists.

“You most certainly, _do not_ ,” I reply, crossing my arms.

He pushes again. 

I open my mouth to warn him, to stop what I see is about to happen.

But I’m too late.

He pushes down once more and the wood cracks apart, making the piece fly from under him. Simon starts to fall with it, but I catch him quickly.

“I think we need to call it, Simon.”

His face is red, and his brows are furrowed as he sees the once whole piece now broken.

“Please,” I beg.

_I want to be done with IKEA furniture._

_Let’s burn it._

_Sacrifice it._

_Cast a spell to make it all disappear._

“Fine,” he mutters. He kicks the broken piece away from him as if he’s trying to get the last word in this fight. 

“I can pay someone to put it together for us,” I suggest, leading him out of the room. “Or I’m sure I could find a spell.”

I close the door behind us, not wanting the demons to follow us into the hallway. I don’t know a furniture building spell, but I think I’m going to research for one when we’ve calmed down. 

He huffs.

Simon doesn’t respond, but I know he won’t want me to pay someone to build it, or spell it. He’d rather build it himself, to _prove_ he can do it. 

I’m sure it’s something to do with his need to prove to himself that he’s a good father. 

I take my wand out of my sleeve and spell the food warm. Simon grabs plates and drinks for the both of us.

“We’ll be alright,” I say once we start eating. Simon, mouth too stuffed with food to even fathom speaking, looks up, clearly confused. “As parents. I’m sure of it.”

He swallows.

“We just spent four hours arguing about furniture,” he states.

“Yes, we did. However, we were still able to sit down and eat dinner cordially.” His foot is rubbing against the top of mine absentmindedly, his tail is wrapped around my calf. Even after arguing, he wants to keep me near. That’s how I know we will be okay. “We didn’t rip each other apart, we don’t love each other any less. Frankly, if _anything_ our arguing is the fault of IKEA, not of our own.”

Simon sighs.

“I will never go to IKEA again.”

“Promise?” I ask.

He nods, shoving another forkful of food into his mouth. I place my hand on top of his own, rubbing my thumb back and forth. 

When we finish and walk to our bedroom (hopefully continuing what I started earlier), I decide something.

We will _never_ build our own furniture again. 

Buy it as is or nothing, for this household. 

And I think it’ll make us better parents in the long run.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Feel free to check me out at [Tumblr](http://tumblr.com/blog/caitybuglove@gmail.com)


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